Hate, Electric
by Busby's Teapot
Summary: Because even if he doesn't know exactly where it is on his world map, America is adamant that the Nile is just a river, dammit. RusAme.


**Hate, Electric**

**_By Busby's Teapot _**

Their relationship, whatever it was now, was unhealthy. Any old sod could tell you that.

The intimacy of friends.

The animosity of enemies.

The electricity of lovers.

No matter how hard he had tried to deny the latter in the past, he had come to terms with it now.

But as to what 'it' was, he didn't know, for they never spoke of it. It was a huge elephant in the room, whenever they were together (which was probably more often than was safe).

And that's why it was unhealthy. He couldn't handle vagueness, it confused and consumed him. Things were best spelt out plainly to him. It wasn't that he was dense, he just never had time for subtle nuances, or indeed for hanging in a limbo.

However Ivan seemed to love those things, insane bastard that he was.

Yet, and this was just a crazy thought he had a while back (that could never, ever be true, but had stuck with him anyway) there was a possibility he could love him. See? Ridiculous. Although, it was undeniable that he was at least attracted to the man, he just had a niggling feeling about just how deep his attachment ran.

"Penny for your thoughts?" a voice interrupted his musings. He turned to see Arthur, a strangely placid expression upon his face. Must be the alcohol.

"Just admiring the scenery," he answered lamely, and waved his hand at the lavish ballroom, it marble columns and ceiling decorated with chain of subtly coloured flowers and snowy edelweiss.

Arthur quirked one enormous eyebrow, obviously unconvinced. Before he could say anything, however, two figures (Alfred later identified them as Spain and Prussia) popped up and dragged the Englishman aware. The earlier serenity soon evaporated to be replaced by indigence.

"Unhand me at once you cretins!"

They soon did, forcing him into France's arms. America watched in amusement as Arthur coloured rapidly, spewing out curses and insults.

"But _mon amour_, you promised me the first dance."

At this, Alfred cast his eyes up to the small stage, where the band had indeed finished tuning and where ready to commence playing. Austria, the host of the ball led a quiet Liechtenstein to the dance floor (much to the acute displeasure of Vash) and wass soon followed by Gilbert and Elizabeta.

Happy, for once, to be on the sidelines, America reclined against one of the marble pillars, resigning himself to the role of a spectator. As always, he was only really seeking out one thing in particular.

Then he saw him.

And he's quite sure at that moment, his brain could have short-circuited, but the feeling gripped him so often he barely paid any heed to it anymore.

Though he still donned his scarf, Ivan had dressed up in an elegant tail-suit, cut to perfection around his figure and looking like something from a fairytale. He tore his eyes away before he was caught blatantly staring at Russia and instead moved to occupy himself with the fantastic spread of finger foods upon the long banqueting table, pushed against the wall.

With great pleasure, he noted how Austria had very kindly (and most likely with great reluctance) included miniature hamburgers as part of the buffet. Helping himself to several (dozen) he failed to notice as he was approached until Lithuania coughed gently.

For the first time, perhaps ever, America swallowed before he spoke.

"Hey Toris," he greeted, "How come you're not out there dancing with Feliks?"

"Er, he is currently with Latvia," he replied awkwardly.

Casting his eyes back to the dance floor, Alfred wondered how he failed to notice Feliks, in an elegant green dress (nothing too unusual there) dragging a terrified Raivis with him in some strange sort of waltz.

"Oh, wow..." was all he could utter in reply.

"So erm as we're friends and all, and neither us are currently...taken, I was wondering if you perhaps might like a dance?"

"Sure."

The two moved into the throng together facing each other a little awkwardly, but soon settled into an easy pattern, chatting lightly about the goings-on around them.  
And so unfolded the next hour, spent dancing with various friends of his including, much to his amusement, both France and England, who, when they weren't dancing with one another, had taken to pressing very close to their respective partners and glaring at one another intensely.

Until the last dance was announced, where everyone took to the floor, as was tradition.

America felt a panic descend upon him. All night, Ivan had only danced thrice - with Belarus (very reluctantly), Ukraine and a terrified Lithuania, the only Baltic he had successfully found. Not that Alfred had been watching, of course. A part of him so badly wanted to dance with him, even as he spotted Kiku making a beeline for him. He quickly nudged his friend in Greece's direction, and ducked into the crowd, working his way towards Russia before anyone could stop him, or he could talk himself out of it.

Ivan looked slightly surprised when America appeared before him, blushing and just a little bit breathless. Though, to be fair, normally poor Russia would end up with whoever was left (Belarus), and he was unused to Alfred looking so...flustered.

"Ivan," he breathed, "May I have this dance?"

Russia just stared back, an unreadable expression upon his face. America tried to ignore the jolt, stronger than usual, and the subsequent warmth that enveloped him as one large hand was placed cautiously in his own.

The intensity burned between them, almost palpable as they faced one another. A fair number of nations were, with good reason, regarding the pair with a mixture of confusion and weariness.

Ivan went to take Alfred's waist, and was mildly put out when America beat him and he was forced to take the smaller blond's shoulder instead, though he gripped it with a little more force than necessary.

For Alfred, the mechanics of leading a taller man should have been difficult, but, surprisingly, they moved together with ease. At some point, his eyes met Ivan's own and he found himself unable to look away, the intense violet gaze much like the iron grip on his shoulder.

Then with a taunting smirk, he twirled the Russian around, not noticing until they had returned to dancing and Ivan was smirking back in much the same way, that the tables had been turned and now he was the one being led.

The ensuing battle for dominance raged for the rest of the dance, other countries moving out of the way, for Alfred and Ivan were too wrapped up in one another and their expectedly caustic banter to pay attention to the path they cut across the floor.

"You dance surprisingly well for one so uncultured, da?"

"Well I didn't ignore everything Artie taught me. What about you, eh? Surprised I haven't seen a pirouette from you yet."

"Not as surprised as I am that you know what one is мой маленький подсолнечник."

"Believe me, that comes nothing to how I feel about a big guy like you being able to pull them off."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No, you're just big boned, aye?"

"Da, just as you are merely thick headed, not stupid, as everyone says you are."

"Aww, a compliment, why thank you Vanny-kins."

"Not a problem, мой дорогой задницу лицо."

Much to Alfred's chagrin, the dance finished after what felt like only a minute had elapsed, and with Ivan's warm hand planted comfortably on his waist. They stayed that way for a while, for some reason unable to break apart until a cough to his right snapped Alfred's attention to England as he stood there awkwardly.

He soon realised that they were virtually the only pair left in the centre of the room and he hurriedly dropped his arms from around Ivan.

Ignoring the burning in his cheeks, he finally tuned in to what Ivan was saying to Arthur.

"... so well, you should be proud. A little on the feisty side, but ultimately, submissive, as he should be, da?"

Laughing at the vibrant aubergine colour that emerged on the faces of both Alfred and his former caretaker, Ivan swept off across the ballroom, headed for a trembling Estonia, who had finally resurfaced from his hiding place for the final dance, but had stayed as far from Russia as possible.

"So erm," England coughed awkwardly, "I know you wanted to make tracks quite handy, but there's something I erm, have to wrap up first."

America sighed, "It's okay Artie, just go to Francis."

The older blond spluttered incoherently, eventually managing a 'thanks, lad' and sidled off, trying to make it appear as if he wasn't moving towards the Frenchman, even though everyone was more than used to them by now.

Shaking his head fondly, he let out a small laugh; some things never changed.

**A/N: I've had this little thing written for a while, which I unearthed earlier today and thought 'why not publish it?' Technically, it has two more parts (which remain mostly unwritten) but I think it stands alright on it's own, though I will, at some point in the future, hopefully finish this. **

**Translations: **

**мой маленький подсолнечник: My little sunflower**

**мой дорогой задницу лицо: My little arse/ass face**

**Once again, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for reading!**

**~Teapot**


End file.
